


another star

by volefriend



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-14 20:16:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13015335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volefriend/pseuds/volefriend
Summary: “You know,” he says, suppressing a weak cough, “I’d like to learn how to read.”Or: Hedwyn and The Reader, over the course of the Rites.





	another star

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Croik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Croik/gifts).



Hedwyn gets the idea in the middle of the night on the Sea of Solis, between fits of sickness. Under these circumstances, he knows, anyone would deem making any sort of life changes foolish- he can hear Jodariel chastising him in his head the moment he thinks of it. But, he supposes, he’d contemplated the thought of it before, and whenever he sees The Reader, it’s crossed his mind. _Why wait_ , he thinks, rolling over slightly on his bunk. 

“You know,” he says, suppressing a weak cough, “I’d like to learn how to read.” 

The Reader perks up. They’ve been sitting on their own bunk across from his, having delivered him some sour-tasting broth and then settling into studying the Book of Rites, claiming their bad leg was aching too badly to help Ti’zo fish outside. He has grown used to this image of them- a small, haggard-looking person who somehow gains the image of serenity curled up with their single book, enraptured by its contents. They look a bit startled to hear him speak. 

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea right _now_ , Hedwyn,” they respond, raising an eyebrow. 

“I think- I think I feel well enough for it,” he lies. “And...I’d like to help in the Rites somehow, If this happens again.” He feels useless laid up, disappointed at himself for needing care. From the start, Sandalwood- whoever he is- had made it clear this was going to be a team effort, and Hedwyn knows now that he’d been right. To feel as if he’s letting everyone down, now- 

(after having let his comrades down so horribly before-) 

he’s not fond of it. 

The Reader pauses. Hedwyn, who had squeezed his eyes shut to block out some pain, opens them again to look over, wondering if they’ve returned to the Book. Instead, they seem deep in thought. 

“Reading requires...mental strength. Not physical,” they conclude. “But still, it wouldn’t help you rest. Especially the process of learning.” 

“Is learning difficult?” 

“I was told once it was harder the older you got,” they say. 

He forces a smile. “Then I hope I’m not too old.” 

The Reader shifts. “Of course not,” they chuckle, as they stand up, and for a moment Hedwyn thinks they’re leaving him. Instead, they pull something from next to their pillow, and come closer to him. 

They gesture to his cot. “May I?” He manages to give them a weak nod.

The object, he realizes, is two- a small set of paper sheets and a small pen for ink. The Reader sits down next to him, shaking the pen until ink begins to drip on the tip, holding it away from the bunk as not to stain. “Have you ever seen your name written, Hedwyn?” 

In his haze, it takes him a moment to remember. “Once...at a market. One of the shopkeepers would take down names of those who bought from him. I got to...look, for a minute. But he was impatient. I guess.” 

The Reader nods. “Hed-wyn,” they mumble. 

Slowly, they begin making shapes on the page. He recognizes some of them, not all, and if they had not told him what they were he could not begin to comprehend them. After writing a few, they pause. 

“That’s my name,” he says. 

The Reader laughs. It’s a legitimate laugh, not a large one but a full one, and he’s pleasantly surprised to hear it. “It’s _half_ your name. I can...think of a few ways to spell the rest. And who knows what’s right?” 

Hedwyn forces himself up to get a better look. His head spins; he knows, immediately, that he will regret it later. The Reader’s handwriting has a shaky quality to it, perhaps from their weak hands, but- elegant, perhaps. Practiced, despite things they cannot change. 

“Does it matter?”, he asks. “As long as someone can read it as my name.”

The Reader frowns. “Of course it does. It’s your name.” 

The sentiment is one he agrees with, but Hedwyn frowns, puzzled. 

“I hope you don’t consider this...too rude for me to say,” he tells them. “But that’s interesting coming from you.” 

They seem saddened, for a moment. The sight hits something in his chest that he hasn’t felt in a long while. He’s wondered, in the weeks now since he found them broken and bruised in the desert, why they insisted they were fine being simply _The Reader of the Nightwings_ and little more. They seemed so startled at first, despite the food and drink he’d given them. Maybe they expected to be tossed aside quickly. But no, never- he thought they had the right person before they even opened that Book. 

“I suppose it is,” The Reader admits. “But if it doesn’t matter much to you...this would be most common.” 

They swiftly sweep a few more letters down on the page. It does look vaguely familiar to him, these shapes; he had tried to hard to remember what his name had looked like, and yet it had slipped away so fast. Now it all comes back. 

“That’s it,” he says. When The Reader looks back at him they have a bemused look that tells him he must be grinning like a fool. 

“Here,” they say, holding out their hand. “I’ll show you how to write it if you promise me you’ll sleep after.” 

He tries to puff up his chest. It’s almost pitiful- there’s nothing to the motion, no energy for it- but he knows he won’t be judged. “I’ve slept plenty.” 

“Tell that to Jodariel. And Rukey, you know. He worries more than he claims he does.” 

He chuckles. “You tell me that as if he hasn’t made it clear.” 

A wave crashes against the side of the wagon. He lets them take his hand, and they put the pen in it. 

-

The drive-imps wake Hedwyn up from the brief sleep he gets after Jodariel returns to the Commonwealth, the breeze lightly circling the Moonlight Alcove. Who knows what they are startled by, but they flutter around in such a panic that one nearly gets caught in his hair, ripping his headband in two. 

It startles him less than it should. Everything pales compared to the events of the day, and, well- Jodi had made sure he’d started wearing this headband the day she found him. Maybe it’s appropriate to have to get a new one now. 

At this point he has learned to write the names of others in a certain order. READER, first. But then RUKEY. MAE. JODARIEL, now, no matter how hard that is to comprehend. He means to know them for letters, to have them sent back with Volfred’s deliveries. It occurs to him that he’ll have to ask The Reader what to write for everyone else, so he can explain how everyone has fared remaining in the Downside, but perhaps he could sound them out at this point. It is early morning, and he thinks he might wake The Reader if he goes to ask; light is only just beginning to show through the trees as he sits in the doorway, practicing near a small flame. 

“Hedwyn,” he hears from the back of the wagon, “you need to sleep.” 

It’s them. He feels badly. Last night, after the Nightwings had watched Jodariel rise away from them- so far away and yet apparently so close- he’d kept them up, talking over stories of her. He hadn’t been thinking right; he was always talking to The Reader like they’d see all of those who’d left them again soon, and yet with Jodi gone he’d let that slip. He felt awful for thinking that way, and felt awful for keeping The Reader up when he knew all about their migraines and body aches and the pain in the brand on their arm. 

Clearly that pain had kept them up again. “You’re the one who needs to sleep. I know you haven’t been feeling well,” he calls back. Now he can see them rolling over in the first light of the morning, painted dull green in the shade of the Alcove through the window. Otherwise, the wagon is empty- their remaining five companions must be starting their days elsewhere. He searches the rafters for Ti’zo, at least, but even the imp is gone, perhaps to hunt fish in one of the ponds. He wants to feel comforted in the fact that none of them could sleep, but again, that feels selfish. 

“It’s fine. I’m used to it,” The Reader says, blinking to see him. “Were you- were you writing?” 

“Doing my letters, yes.” 

“You shouldn’t. It strains your eyes to read in the dark.” They laugh, a small thing. “I would know.” 

He thinks that The Reader is a good listener, but rarely an open speaker, someone who keeps their life before close to their chest. Everyone in the Downside does, but this person, especially, flummoxes him sometimes with how simultaneously closed-off and open they seem, so willing to help and yet often so unwilling to speak openly. He’d shared more than enough about himself last night, but this is a rare moment. “Was that how you hid you could read?”, Hedwyn asks, walking back towards the bunks. 

“At times. Other times...I simply wanted to get a hold on the information as soon as I could. I never...” 

They pause, staring up at him, and for a moment he simply thinks they are stymied by a specific memory, the way he often is. But then he realizes they are not gazing through him but at his head, finally noticing the absence of his headband in the dim light. 

And the brand. He realizes, suddenly, that he isn’t sure The Reader ever knew he had a brand. 

He puts on a reassuring smile. “One of the drive-imps tore it. I’ll have to find some way to stitch it back together, or get something new-”

“I’m sorry,” they say, startling out of their trance. “I should have known you wore it for a reason. It was foolish of me.” 

“That’s nothing to apologize for,” Hedwyn tells them, sitting down next to them on their bunk. 

He watches them rub a hand through their hair. When their sleeve falls, he can just barely see the edge of their own brand on their arm, a circular design akin to the mark on the cloak itself. 

“Was the ointment you gave me for my brand yours?”, they ask, eyes looking away. 

He’d forgotten that. It must have been The Reader’s first or second day with them. “Oh, no. This was done years ago. I hadn’t needed it in ages. It’s yours to keep, my friend.” 

The Reader sighs. For a moment they become so quiet that he tries to find the right thing to say to reassure them. Then they tip a bit, a soft movement, and rest their head against Hedwyn’s shoulder. 

This is new. He finds that he doesn’t mind, though. Few people, he realizes, have been this close to him for a very long time. 

“You don’t _have_ to be this kind, you know,” The Reader says, after a moment. “We’re in the Downside. No one would hold it against you if you decided to be a bit more harsh..” 

“I’ve been told that before. But it doesn’t get me anywhere. After all,” he swings an arm around The Reader’s shoulder. “If I had decided to be harsh, I don’t think we would have ever met you. And we _need_ you. You’ve done so much for us, and I hope you know that.” 

“I still wouldn’t have held it against you,” they respond. “How could I judge?” 

The thought leaves a sickening feeling in his chest. To think of how weak and alone they had been when they were found, how hungry they’d been when fed... _you deserve the right to judge,_ he wants to say, but he knows he wouldn’t have, either. And he knows them well enough to know they’d tell him so if he said anything. 

The Reader shifts back up. He finds himself surprisingly sad, wanting to have their tiny body close to him again. 

He hasn’t wanted someone so close since- well. Fikani. He shouldn’t think about her right now, subject himself to that kind of longing tonight, not after seeing Jodi leave. He just never thought he’d feel that feeling again, that special kind of warmth. 

He takes a breath and stares at them. He wonders, sometimes, whether he will have anything to go back to. If the thing that he’s dreamt of for so long will still be waiting there for him. 

If they all can’t go back- if _The Reader_ can’t go back- then maybe...

“I shouldn’t be worrying you today, Hedwyn. After yesterday. I’m sorry,” The Reader says. They gently pat one of his hands. 

“It’s fine. You don’t need to worry.” 

“Good,” they say, smiling softly. “I promised Sir Gilman I’d read him some of the Book today. Do you want me to help you with those letters after?” 

“I’d be very grateful,” he responds.

He realizes, as they walk away, that he’s still clutching his pen. His fingertips are stained with ink. 

-

He had not wanted to believe the Rites were ending. Not when they were so close to true freedom; not when so few of them were left. 

Yet it is unmistakable now. The way The Reader and Tariq look when they go to watch the stars, this quickening pace- everyone knows, now. At night Hedwyn stays up, sometimes, as they travel, and feels as if a heavy shroud has been placed upon him. 

He promised all of them they would go to the Commonwealth together. At least that first four of them. The memory stings, now, when he sees The Reader wading through ponds with Ti’zo, helping Bertrude with her elixirs. They look so tired, so worried. What a fool he’s been. 

The day of the Rite he invites The Reader to walk to the altars leading up to Mount Alodiel and pray, and they go with him, as they always have. The cold is bitter and stinging and he tells them they can go back, but they keep going, slowly on their weak leg. 

“What do you want to do when you’ve left this place?”, they ask, after the prayers are done. 

He wants to tell them that they shouldn’t hurt themself by asking such a thing, knowing they won’t go back (or so they say; in him, still, is foolish hope). But he is honest. 

“Find everyone else up there. And make them a meal with some real supplies,” he jokes, and they smirk in response. “Then we’ll all get to work on the Plan, of course.” 

“But a meal first!” 

“You can’t do all that without getting the strength for it, right?” 

“Of course,” they respond. “I’m sure everyone will love it, Hedwyn.” 

He knows what they’re getting at by the tone in their voice. He turns to look at them. They’re staring at the altar, quiet, a somber mood on their face. 

He can’t stand it. 

“Listen,” he says, and he takes their hand without thinking. It is soft, becoming clammy in the mountain air, and after spending his life around soldiers Hedwyn considers that he once never imagined someone’s hands could come without calluses. 

“I made you a promise,” he says, trying to meet their eyes. “When I said that all of us who started this would be getting out together...that didn’t leave you out.”

“I know, Hedwyn, but-” 

“No. No, I can’t...just let you think it’s alright you’ll be alone here. It’s not fair to have to leave you behind.” 

He feels bad for interrupting them the minute he opens his mouth. When they finally look up at him their lips are pursed. For a moment he thinks he’s upset them, but he quickly realizes the expression isn’t as much hurt as it is frustration.

“You know I won’t be alone, Hedwyn,” they respond, after a moment. “At the rate the rites are progressing...there’s no chance I’ll be able to let more than two of you back.” They have a dry smile, after a moment. “And even if everyone else could go, there would be the Crystal. And perhaps Tariq. Would that all of us could leave, but...the Downside is not devoid of life, no matter how much it wants to be.” 

Hedwyn is shocked by how deeply his spirit seems to fall at their words. One would think their viewpoint would be a reassurance, yet it makes him feel more beaten down. “You can’t just _give up_ ,” he says, softly.

“I’m not,” The Reader responds. “I spent so long telling myself how awful it was...but I needed to come to terms with it. We would suffer if I hadn’t.”

He bites the inside of his lip. He thinks of the nights The Reader would remain wide awake for hours, the mornings when they woke up long before they were needed to read. Had the worry and defeat kept them up? Had they been struggling with this through reading lessons and sky journeys? If only he’d said something sooner. 

He is struggling to find words as, slowly, The Reader takes a few steps forward. They reach up toward his face, and despite his surprise, he lets them. Their fingers curl against his cheek; they are smiling slightly, still, and he is increasingly worried it is forced. 

“It’s kind of you to worry for me, Hedwyn. But you have since the moment we met,” they tell him, settling their thumb on the curve of his chin. “And I don’t want you to do have to do that any more. There’s plenty more people worrying for _you_ out there.” 

“You know I’ll keep worrying if I leave.” 

“ _When._ ” 

His throat feels dry. It wasn’t too long ago that those words would have filled him with a simpler joy. “Reader, I-” 

“No. There’s no point in keeping it from you any longer.” They pull their hand back, looking at the altar. “Bertrude has her business here. Ti’zo would be happy as long as some of us are close by. And Volfred’s priority is the Plan...but his contacts can take care of that.” They pause, taking a deep breath. Hedwyn knows that, before this, they rarely spoke their plans out loud, and this moment must feel so strange. 

“So,” they admit, “I would like to send you home, if we win tonight. Then Pamitha at the final Rite.” 

“And then you think it’s over.” He means it to be a question, but it does not come out that way. 

They nod. “I do.” 

Suddenly they lean forward, hand over their mouth. For a moment Hedwyn assumes they have become sick, and a pang of fear hits his chest. Instead they choke out a sob. He doesn’t even need to think before he pulls them close to his chest. They’re so cold, shaking, and after a moment they are digging their fingers into his cloak, trying to choke down deep breaths. 

Hedwyn feels his heart sinking in his chest. He thinks of the Commonwealth, the things he’d missed, the people he’s wanted to see, the person he’d wanted to see _so badly..._

He steels himself. 

“It’s your choice who you send back,” he whispers to The Reader. “You don’t have to pick me tonight. If you think you can’t- if you _need_ me...”

“No,” they cry against his chest. “I can’t do that to you. You have so many people waiting for you. You’ve been _waiting for someone_ for so long. I was cruel not to send you home sooner.”

“No you weren’t,” he says. He reaches toward their hood, to pet their hair. They dig their fingers in deeper. 

Then words start spilling out of his mouth. Things he didn’t think he’d ever admit, ever even let himself think. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen her. Sometimes I think...I think I’m a fool for waiting for her so long. For thinking things were that strong, after what I did.” He focuses on their hair, so it will be easier not to choke on the dusty frost around them. “I don’t know if Fikani will be there when I go back. Sometimes...I think it’s easier not knowing.” 

The Reader pulls away. Bright air flows from their mouth and nostrils. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.” 

“I know. I...I try to have some hope, but I just-” 

“You _do_ have hope. You kept me hopeful, Hedwyn,” they say. They are looking at him with the firmest expression he has ever seen on their face. “And anyone would wait for you. I’m sure she would.” 

He doesn’t think before he asks. “Do you want her to be waiting for me?” 

They seem stunned. Their eyes are wide on their skinny face. But, after a moment, they smile. “I want you to be happy. So...yes. I do,” they say. 

But there’s just enough hesitation in their voice. Just enough. 

The two of them walk back to the wagon as it gets dark, both moving slow in the wind and snow. Sometimes he finds himself slightly ahead and waits, prepared to hold out a hand to help, but they keep their arms wrapped around their chest. When they reach the wagon it seems as if it is looming, a darkened structure for the coming night. 

The Reader begins to stagger up the steps. After a moment, though, they stop and turn back to him. “H-Hedwyn,” they say, teeth chattering in the cold, “did it ever bother you that you didn’t know my name?” 

“Yes,” he admits, immediately. “Can I ask why you never told us?” 

They lean against the doorway, looking up towards the stars. “I didn’t expect...staying with you all. I didn’t expect you needed me for any more than reading some papers. Not _this._ And by the time I finally realized how long it would be, we met Volfred. And,” they say, sniffling, “then I knew I wouldn’t be a part of your lives for very long, in any case.” 

The wind whips around his ankles. He feels as if it is going to topple him over. 

“You don’t have to keep hurting yourself. We all trust you,” he tells them. “We’ll live with whatever you choose. You _must_ know that.” 

The Reader stares at him for a moment, and pushing off from the wall, stands straight before coming halfway down the stairs. They cup his cheeks with their hands, and slowly lean down to kiss his forehead, on his headband. He feels frozen in place. He wants to hold them again; he wants more than this. 

“Be safe, Hedwyn,” they say. “You’re going to do wonderful. No matter what happens.” 

Standing there, though, as The Reader enters the wagon, he knows this is already over. They are going to win, tonight. The Reader will not allow anything else. 

He takes a deep breath. Silently, he curses the stars. And then he walks in behind them, and moves to get his raiments. 

**Author's Note:**

> The bit about Hedwyn's headband was inspired by a tidbit Greg Kasavin once gave in the Supergiant Discord: "erisa was branded for her patricide, and the brand is under her headband. when i pointed out hedwyn has a headband too greg just said 'He sure does! I thought about scenes where he might remove it but those never happened.'" (https://pamithatheyn.tumblr.com/post/165144407499/so-greg-showed-up-in-the-sg-discord-yesteday-and)
> 
> Happy Yuletide!


End file.
